Little Lost Island
by Sukuangtou
Summary: As island nations, the UK brothers know the rage of the seas and soon find themselves falling into those murky depths. One-Shot.


**Warnings: (This is also a slight spoiler, annoyingly) Character death. **

* * *

Nations did not exist to them, only the certain few knew what they were. To them, they were just another name for the hunk of land sitting upon the sea. So when that fateful decision to turn a blind eye was made, they did not understand the consequences, the impact upon the world's nations stretching far and wide. But, possibly worst of all, they did not tell a soul.

"_There'll always be an England,"_

For years the oceans has swept along the coastlines tracing this little country, gradually eroding cliff by cliff of the chalky stone, farmers wheat fields and people's gardens. The government did not listen to peoples pleas for defences against the mighty waves that battered with every storm, every breeze, until yet other mile was lost.

The little islands were the first to go.

This caused some uproar, but the ministers and government parties were happily tucked away in parliament, too far away from the destruction to understand its impact. Why should it bother them? One lost their third holiday house on the Isle of White, but that was all. The human cost did not count.

But then Ireland and Northern Ireland fell to the seas, leaving just a small pillar in the very centre were the nations used to be, ragged and lost. Its people had fled years before, some moving to mainland Britain, others further afield to America and so on.

"_While there's a country lane,"_

These governments now joined the campaigns, the petitions, the begging on their knees in the dirt for safety, a coastal wall, an offshore barrier, anything that might delay the charging tides by even a few months. But still the people's voices flowed passed unhearing ears, and soon, Wales and Scotland were reeling backwards, each day the salt waters flowing ever stronger than the other.

And then there was one.

And then the Highers listened.

But by then, it was far too late.

* * *

Nations were funny things, surviving not from the very land they were, but the everyday people that lived there. If even one person had clung to that rock, that shard of land, then maybe both Ireland siblings would have survived. But the gut wrenching fact was they had fallen long before the cliffs as their people left for safer homes. England could remember the day Wales, Scotland and himself had, with pain filled eyes, watched the last ship make the journey over, the (temporary) relieved sighs of the men, woman and children now setting off to find new homes, new nationalities. Scotland had smoked about thirty that day, one after another in a smoky sequence just outside the kitchen window, watching the sea birds fly over for new nesting grounds above the tiled rooftop of England's seaside home. Wales had curled up on the sofa, back against the arms plating a small bunch of his hair before tying the end with an emerald green ribbon then taking it out and redoing it all over again, turquoise orbs staring at his pulled up knees. England himself had not a clue what he should be doing. Half of him fancied a quiet stroll along his own coastline, but he could not trust himself to go alone, so instead he just wafted around the house all day, ignoring the BBC news and newspaper headlines. He dusted a little, made tea, prepared dinner (which later went untouched and into the outside bin for the foxes to enjoy) and left the ringing phone unanswered, muting the messages from other nations.

"_Wherever there's a cottage small,"_

It was only a matter of months before they started to feel the effects of the wine-dark waters too. Wales, Scotland, Cornwall and Happisburgh beginning to flake away now, making each breath slightly tighter, wheezier, each movement a little more stiff. Wales descended downhill fast, losing the ability to lift his left arm higher than his chest and then his legs further and the height of a corgi. Maybe what made it more painful for England was the smile that continued to grace his lips, the chuckles he made at the latest TV comedy, his hope that the people would get through to the governments.

The day they lost him, rain poured like a waterfall over what was left of the kingdom. This time, Arthur had allowed himself to cry. Not only for his third sibling lost, but because of the fact that very day Scotland experienced his first bought of proper pain, momentarily paralyzing him on the living room floor, mug of coffee spilled across the carpet. It had bloody terrified him.

"_Beside a field of grain,"_

It took a few years for Scotland to wither fully, his natural resilience and determination keeping him going. But soon he followed the path the others had followed, skin turning pale and gaunt, fingers shaking, eyes gradually turning to a glassy haze. The man had nearly burnt himself twice trying to light his cigarette. Three grinding years on, and many of his people had left for England, unable to follow their Irish and Welsh cousins to further seas due to the sheer expenses in the economically struggling country, and only a few towns along the border remained. England too was also beginning to droop, the tides having reached Dorset and Kent.

Scotland vanished on the eleventh of March, leaving Arthur alone in his house.

He spent that day sitting in his frosted garden. An abandoned cup of tea cradled in his hands and Scotland's cigarette packet in his cardigan chest pocket, watching his empty rose bush sway in the breeze while talking out loud to his Tudor Queen.

"_They'll always be an England,"_

England had never felt so abandoned.

* * *

Gazing around the slowly filling hall, France lent against the ivory painted wall, arms crossing his chest. His fingers of his right hand fiddled unconsciously with a stray thread of his purple waistcoat, twisting the material over his nails again and again. Beside him, Canada patiently replied to constant texts America seemed to be sending him, his phone beeping every few seconds. Across the hall, Germany and Italy were busy breaking up Norway and Denmark who seemed to be trying to kill each other while Iceland sat in his chair in front of them, completely ignoring his siblings and petting his puffin. China, to the far left of the grand table in the centre of the room, was shakily chatting to Russia, who lent over him with his usual smile. Spain was obviously hugging Romano somewhere in the crowded room as the angered shouts were echoing off the walls with a beautiful array of cusses and curses. Prussia was probably there too, seeing as the word "Awesome!" seemed to be joining in.

"The hero has arrived!" Screamed over the noise, but went completely ignored as the doors banged open wildly, a figure posing triumphantly in the doorway with hands on his hips. No one battered an eyelash. Dejected, the American grumpily strolled over, flashing them a teeth-filled grin as his eyes set on them. Swinging his arms around his twin, the man pulled the poor boy into his chest.

"Hiya Mattie! How's it goin'? Haven't seen you in ages-"

"-I was around your house yesterday-"A little voice poked in.

"-We need to meet up!" America then nodded towards France, releasing Mathew and pushing Texas up his nose. "Hey France, so, how long do you think the meeting will last? You see, there's a McDonalds doing a one-day only five burgers for the price of one and-"

"All day, as usual Amérique," France sighed, watching as Alfred's lips pulled into a pout.

"But I'm hungry! Maybe if we can get someone to begin a fight or something then we could go earlier…" He drifted off in though, looking around the room for a target.

"I'm sure you'll survive, Amérique. I need to ask, have you heard anything from-"

"Hey! What about Russia? I mean, dude's pretty scary, if he decided to fight someone I'm pretty sure Germany would halt the meeting!" Alfred's sky orbs lit up instantly, pointing a finger in the air at his eureka moment, "That could work!"

"Or someone might get accidently hurt," His brother injected, raising an eyebrow and biting back a sigh, "A fight isn't the best idea Alfred." America pouted yet again, huffing as he strolled over to his designated seat between England and Canada and plonking himself down, mumbling under his breath. Chuckling lightly, France sat in his place also next to England's empty one, leaning forward to sit his elbows sat on the table, chin resting on his hands. His face turned to one of seriousness as he thought for a moment.

"Alfred?" He said quietly, catching the other attention.

"Yeah?" Alfred answered without looking, taking out a pen from his pocket and clicking the tip up and down, bored already.

"Have you heard from our dear Arthur recently?" France regarded him for a moment, watching for his reaction, "I haven't been able to get hold of Petite Lapin for a good while now." Alfred chewed his lip, keeping his eyes on the pen.

"Iggy? No…Now you mention it, I haven't heard from him since…The last meeting? Yeah, we argued over coffee, funny, my boss mentioned about the docks closing…"He glanced over, only to then jump in his seat when someone moved between them.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," The British accent said smoothly, its owner pulling out the chair to sit, placing the black briefcase onto the table. France stared at the man for a moment with judging eyes, before smiling.

"Ah, mon Petite Lapin, it's nice to know you're still alive," Alfred frowned slightly as his former caretaker visibly flinched at Francis' comment, "We haven't heard from you for ages. How is dear little England?"

"Holding up, France," Arthur said stiffly, focusing on resorting his notes onto the table. America noted the sudden choice to wear a pair of fine leather gloves, causing his brows to knot again. Arthur was not really the sort of person into leather. France, also equally confused, tried to strike up conversation.

"How's the Queen?" Of course, his cherished Queen was always a favourite topic of Arthur, "It's her jubilee soon, and I imagine your all ready with the celebrations? I bet they'll be even better than all those boats on the Thames you did before." However, the nation simply shrugged in response, closing the briefcase and setting it on the floor beside his boot-clad feet. Sitting back in his seat, America let his aqua-blue orbs wander around the room, attempting to think of a subject to get England talking. The Queen had obviously failed, maybe parliament? Arthur liked to have a good moan about his bosses; he did so at every meeting.

"How's the government then?" He sighed casually, "Still fighting over who to put on the new notes of money?"

England just swallowed nervously.

"This and that, you know how they are," He shrugged again, "You?"

"Not much, my boss wants to install some new power plants and stuff, but nothing really major. Oh!" Alfred dove his hand into an inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a crumpled letter, handing it to the blond, "He wanted me to ask you why the ports are no longer in action, and why he can't get hold of the Prime Minister." Taking the letter, Arthur hesitantly opened it up, scanning the words quickly, emerald orbs widening in what Alfred could only interpret as panic. "Hey, everything ok?"

"Sure, sure," England hesitantly replies, jumping to his feet, "Excuse me a second," With that he retreated from the room, practically jogging out. Bewildered, Alfred also stood, making to go after him. France caught his hand.

"Amérique, don't chase him like a dog," He scolded. Alfred shook his head.

"Something's up, Francis, something's defiantly bothering him." Freeing himself, he too left the room, following along the single corridor to the main entrance of the hotel everyone had booked into. Finding it empty, excluding the receptionist, he hurried over to the men's bathroom back down the hall. Freezing at the door, he opened it an inch and leaned down to listen to the jumble of hurried words, working out Arthur was on his phone.

"-reception, I'm in the bathroom." A pause, "Well I'm _sorry_, I can't exactly control the time difference…What?" A longer period of silence as somebody probably explained something on the other side, "It hasn't started yet, but listen, I'm being asked questions, I…" A sigh, "Should I tell them? It's not like they're going to-…I know." Arthur's voice was beginning to rise now, both frustrated and pained. "I've told you before; do _not_ talk about him that way….Yes. It will only be so long before the news will leak out…No, I didn't mean…I-I'll do my best. Goodbye sir." A small beep indicated his hanging up, a long weary sigh following. He was quiet for a moment, then the sound of running water splashing. Swallowing, Alfred almost silently opened the door.

"Arthur?" Said nation jumped, face wet from just being washed. He blinked at him before turning to dry his face on the paper towels provided.

"Oh, hello Alfred," He uttered, throwing the paper in the bin, "Has the meeting started then?"

"No, just…" America stumbled on his words, shifting from foot to foot as the elder man gazed over to him, "Well, is everything ok? You're very…Distant, today. That phone call-"

"You heard?" Arthur scowled, picking up the leather gloves on the side of the sink to slip back on, but America suddenly leaped forward, snatching one of his hands and holding it up to his face.

"What the hell, Arthur?" He cried in horror, turning to meet his gaze. Arthur's hand was practically smothered in stomach-churning purple and teal marks, running up his fingers to his far too pale nails. Holding the limb, Alfred could feel the mild shaking running up the blonde's arm. Arthur struggled under his stare, half-heartedly attempting to pull away while untranslatable words failed on his lips.

"Arthur, what happened?" America's voice was stern, controlled, but he loosened his hold on the hand.

"N-nothing happened-"England stuttered.

"Who did this to you?"

"No one, It's…I…." Alfred cut him off with a sigh, dropping his wrist. Arthur stepped back, rubbing it and refusing to make eye contact.

"What's going on England?" He the shorter stiffened at his country name, "Tell me the truth." Noticing he was about to shrug again, he took the man's chin and turned it towards him, the back of his mind realising that the nation has lost weight. "Please, Iggy, me. If someone's-"

"No one did this to me America."

"So what happened?"

"I…" He pulled away, closing his eyes, head down, "I can't tell you."

"Hey," Placing both hands on this former mentor's shoulders, he gave him a like shake, "Of course you can, please Iggy, tell me what's going on. Your Prime Minister, is he treating you properly? That conversation sounded tight."

"Everything's _fine, _Alfred, please, let this drop, _please?_" Arthur begged, rubbing his eyes with his now gloved hand while letting out a pained sigh. Alfred grimaced knowing what was hidden underneath the leather. The man looked tired,_ old_. "Alfred…" England began slowly, "Meet me here, tonight; the hotel shuts up at eleven so meet me here at twelve." With that, the shaking nation swiftly fled the room, leaving a very lost man behind him.

* * *

Alfred, still dressed in his clothes, silently crept through the sleeping hotel, wincing as he descended the stairs when his shoes squeaked noisily. Stopping, he toed them off, completing the rest of the short journey in his Homer Simpson socks. Outside, the world was deep coal black, with only the moonlight beaming in through the glass doors and windows of the entrance hall. He almost broke his leg when he walked into one of the small tables with a rather expensive vase sitting on top, only just snatching it up before it shattered to the ground. Slowing his pace, he felt for the wall and gradually slipped his way along to the corridor to the bathroom, a small slither of light stretching out from under the door. Knocking lightly, he pushed it open, but then stepped back in surprise when he found Arthur somehow balanced on the wall between two cubicles, blocking the air went with the paper towels.

"A-Arthur?"

"America!" England hissed, "Close the bloody door!" Nodding, Alfred closed it then turned to the elder man.

"What are you doing? How'd you even get up there?"

"Shh," Arthur waved an ungloved hand at him, "Get some of those towels and put them under the door so no one sees the light. Lock it too." Perplexed, Alfred did as he was told, waiting until the blonde seemed satisfied that they were secure. Arthur then climbed down and lent on the wall, letting a long breath pass his lips.

"Arthur," Walking the short distance, Alfred once again stood before the nation, bent so he was eye-level, "Now will you tell me what's going on?" Swallowing, green eyes met blue, and Arthur let himself slowly sink down the wall, curling up on the floor. America moved downwards with him, kneeling as if talking to a child. One of Arthur's battered hands weakly reached up to the sleeve of his cream-coloured jumper, pulling up the sleeve to reveal the same bruising snaking up his arm like a viper.

"W-What?" Gently as possible, the American took the arm, tracing the marks that looked as if soot had been thrown at the Brit with his thumb. Snapping his head up, he stared at England with begging eyes, "Arthur, what is this?"

"I'm…I'm dying America."

His limbs jolted him into a statue, navy-blue orbs locking with Arthur, mouth agape. Chest tightening, Alfred gulped greedily for air, not realising the crushing grip he now had on the injured arm. England closed his eyes away and inhaled deeply through his nose before casting them up again.

"Alfred, you're hurting me."

"What? Oh, sorry!" Jumping back, America continued to gawk at the blonde. "Arthur, Iggy, you're not dying. You can't be dying. Nations don't _die!_"

"They can Alfred, trust me, my brothers have." Arthur's stare was cool, but underneath Alfred could see how much he was trying to stay collected to avoid a breakdown.

"Huh?" Was all he could manage.

"My brothers, America, both the Irelands, Wales and Scotland have all gone, fallen to the sea." Now he dropped his gaze to his lap, fingers dancing together in a slow waltz, "I'm the last one left."

"T-that can't be," Alfred scooted over so he was next to the Brit, "Nations don't just vanish into thin air."

"They can if there's no more land for their people to live on." England replied, keeping his eyes elsewhere, "I'm an island nation, Alfred, we all are…were. Over time, we just fall away. This," He held up his hands, voice cracking, "Is a result of me losing my coastline counties to the sea. I'm in the process of losing Hadrian's Wall up north too."

But," Alfred said desperately, "Can't your government do something about it, sea barriers and all that stuff?" Arthur sadly shook his head, swallowing harshly several times before answering.

"This must not get out, Alfred, hence," He pointed over to the door and air vent to emphasise his point, "It's too much of a threat that other countries might try something, or terrorists now that our defences are weak, our police force useless. But, to answer your question, no we cannot. Coastal defences can cost thousands, Alfred, and that's money my country simply doesn't have at the moment, with the NHS struggling and people going far below the breadline. But going to other countries will simply be shouting, 'Oi, we're over here and have no defences! Come attack us!'" He shrank further down the wall, continuing on wobbly while hugging his legs "Plus we are beginning to believe it's simply too late. Global warming is on the up and judging by the rate the cliffs are falling, and using myself as a timer, by the time things _do_ arrive there won't be much left to protect. We have _months_, Alfred, at the most." He turned himself away, shoulders shaking as he tried to control himself.

"No, no you're wrong, you have to be wrong." Alfred cried desperately, sniffing and pulling Arthur close. The Brit just peered up at him with watery orbs, a tiny, failing smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Wrapping both arms comfortingly around the nation, America pulled him up onto his lap and hugged him close, letting his own tears fall as his shoulder became damp from Arthur's own.

"I-I'm sorry," Arthur whispered, "I'm s-so sorry Alfred."

"Shh, it's g-going to be ok, you're going to be ok, A-Arthur," Alfred rubbed his hand in circles around the elder's back, blinking harshly to try and clear his sight, words catching his throat.

"I…I don't want to die," England whimpered into him, tucking his head away, "Please, Alfred, I don't want to die."

"I _will _help you, I'm not letting you go, Iggy, I'm not going to allow it."

* * *

"_There'll always be an England,"_

But time is something not to be taken lightly, as it soon dribbles through your fingertips like chilling liquid. Very quickly the American realised that, and even with his best government men secretly working on a great number of defences, costing his people thousands, they would not be done in time. They were not just talking about one or two small coastlines that needed to be protected, this had to go around the _entire_ English coast, miles of historic land that was falling away day by day with the rising ocean waters, winter storms and leaving people. All British docks had been left for ruin after Scotland fell, meaning whenever something was finished and ready to go up, the American ships struggled to find any suitable land to dock and unload. Meanwhile, Alfred, Mathew and Francis (who had to be told after Arthur's health began to fail) were flying to and from England and their own countries offering comforting foods and company to the sick nation while doing their best to keep this tragedy secret.

"_While there's a busy street," _

By November, Arthur was in hospital. His messy locks now tangled in sweaty, unwashed knots around his pallid face, those disgusting bruises travelling up arms and legs and now circling his abdomen, chest and neck. His eyes, once full of life, now dully watched as his own was taken away, the planes swooping overhead always returning to the country empty save the crew. His home, his prized garden, were falling to ruin, the grass overgrown and the kitchen cupboards empty, Arthur's appetite having wilted to a single slice of toast a day, if that. The ancient nation often spent his day sleeping, dozing in his bed or on the sofa, allowing his old comedies to lull him to somewhere where he could live, even for a short while. Occasionally he found himself dreaming of past events, as if his life was ever so slowly flashing before his eyes.

The banning of Christmas and sports when his monarchy lost.

Fighting for Englaland along with the Anglo-Saxon Earls.

Emily Davison throwing herself under the king's horse in attempt to turn the politicians heads.

All these events plus the thousands of others he had lived through; the Roman Empire, his own, Piracy and those damn trenches. All of these trickling before his eyes, gradually getting closer and closer to the present day.

He did not have long left, he could feel it.

Already the waves had eaten away at Essex, Yorkshire, Oxfordshire and into Lincolnshire. His people were leaving by the hour, seeking new lives.

He made the call to Alfred, Francis and Matthew, telling them with a broken heart that he would be gone by the end of the month, if not sooner.

"_Wherever there's a turning wheel,"_

And so here they were, crowded into Arthur's countryside cottage house waiting for the end of England. His governments had now all left and all that remained were the families of the pilots flying across the globe to deliver his people abroad and a few workers at the airports. Cities were now empty, roads abandoned and trains halted all to escape the waters that coated most of the world. Each night all three of them would sit in Arthur's room as he slept, all ready to say goodbye for when the last plane took off. As nations themselves, they did not count enough to keep the elder man alive. Canada had busied himself in Arthur's beloved garden, keeping it tidy for the Brit. He'd even gone to one of the derelict garden centres and taken all the red roses he could find, decorating the house with England's favourite flower. Francis washed Arthur's clothes and bed sheets, chatting lightly to his dear friend even when Arthur began to lose his ability to speak. Alfred read to him, history books, Shakespeare, Dickens and all Arthur's cherished authors. He even read Winnie the Pooh from an old tattered book that was a well-loved first edition.

Then, one night, with his three best friends surrounding him, asleep in their armchairs, Arthur heard the final plane fly high into the dark clear sky overhead like a dove.

"_A million marching feet,"_

Tucked up under his sheets, he smiled gently, blinking his eyes closed and letting the light, refreshing feeling soak over him like a cloud. The aches in his arms fell away, the bruises were replaced with healthy white skin and his woodland orbs lightened with the lifting burden. Opening them slowly, he found himself standing in the room, his clothes still on the bed and his family still happily unaware in sleep.

Taking each nation in turn, he bent over them, placing a loving kiss onto each forehead while non-existent tears fell, whispering each time.

"Thank you, for everything."

* * *

Years later, the lesson learnt from that ancient and lost country was still raw in the hearts of many. Governments all over the world listened intently to new ideas on how to make electricity, people did not shout and complain as much when wind turbines and solar panels where put in place and fossil fuels became taxed. Sea defences became the requirement of all coastline or island countries and were undertaken with the upmost seriousness. Some politicians of the fated land lead the way while others melted into the crowd. But for the nations, they knew the cost at a far greater level. All of them had attended Arthur's funeral, even including humans he had met and worked with.

But, even now, Alfred found himself crying. Standing alone in one of his many forests, he would wander to wherever his feet took him, allowing himself to mourn for his former caretaker, his mentor, his friend in privet.

"Excuse me, why are you crying?"

Spinning, he stared down at the child, wearing the little white gown, a hooded cloak around his neck.

Owning a pair of those damn, damn eyebrows.

* * *

**Phew, that took forever to write. **

**The banning of Christmas and sports when his monarchy lost. = When Oliver Cromwell took over England after the Civil War (monarchy having lost and he and the politicians winning) he was so religious he banned almost everything, including eating Christmas dinner, sports, make-up and theatres! Fun guy.**

**Fighting for along with the Anglo-Saxon Earls. = (Englaland is not a spelling mistake, it's was England's name for the Anglo-Saxons) In 1066 England was invaded, and the Earls of Merica (Middle of England) and Northumbria (top of the country) helped King Harold against the Norman invasion (Harold was both Earl of Wessex – along the bottom of the country – and East Anglia – to the right of the country) **

**Emily Davison throwing herself under the king's horse in attempt to turn the politicians heads. = Emily Davison, along with many other women, was a part for the campaign for woman rights/the vote. She put herself in the King's horse's way during a race and died that day. There is actually video of her doing so, if you so desire to look it up.**

**The song used in this is "There'll always be an England" which was sung during the Second World War. **

**England's Tudor Queen = Elizabeth. She described herself as "Married to England".**

**The United Kingdom is an island based kingdom, meaning that yes, we are under threat of erosion. It is often on the news and houses along the Norfolk coast are falling to the sea. Happisburgh (Pronounced Haze-borough, spelling and pronunciation completely different!) is one of the worst hit. Actually, a while ago someone suggested that we let Norfolk fall into the sea, losing many homes, wildlife environments etc. with it. It didn't happen. But as an island nation, we are under threat. **

**Sorry for any spelling errors.**

**I do not own 'Hetalia'**

**Please review!**

**Sukuangtou. **


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